Be Careful What You Wish For, page 26
‘What’s a lovely boy like you doing in a gurrier’s dive like this?’ she asked.
‘This isn’t a dive.’ He checked it out, surprised.
‘Must’ve muddled it, so. What’s a gurrier like you doing in a lovely place like this?’
‘I preferred it the first way,’ said Fionn. ‘Wine, beer, gin, all three?’
‘Think I’ll have a Pimms and white in honour of the blink of sunshine I detected between rain showers today. But don’t make the barman feel inadequate if he lacks cucumber slices to garnish it.’
‘Your chances of cucumber slices are about equal with your chances of sunburn from that scintilla of sunshine earlier today.’
Molly affected distaste. ‘Standards just keep on slipping. They’ll be serving the drink in plastic beakers next.’ She dampened her forefinger and wiped at an ink blot on Fionn’s chin. ‘Tell me some of the clues you can’t work out, McCullagh. We used to be a winning combination on the crossword front.’
‘What blows hot one day and cold the next?’ asked Fionn, catching the barman’s eye. ‘Pimms and white, please. With ice.’
‘Haven’t a notion.’ Molly removed her coat and draped it over her stool. ‘Wait until I wind my fingers around a drink, it always helps my powers of concentration. Here’s to the weekend.’
She clinked glasses with Fionn and drank deeply. ‘Looking promising already. What blows hot one day and cold the next? It must be some kind of wind, a mistral or whatever you call them. How many letters?’
‘Five. Begins with M, ends in Y.’ Fionn was looking decidedly attractive in a pale grey suit and shirt so white it blinded the eye. Did this indicate she was now such a boring grown-up that men in smart suits appealed to her?
She drank again and laid her glass on the bar counter. ‘Of course, you mean me.’
Fionn folded up the newspaper.
Molly waited for him to make a pitch but he finished his Guinness.
‘I’ll order you another,’ she offered.
‘I only wanted the one here. I have plans,’ he said. ‘I’m meeting some of the lads from the office in The Norseman shortly. We’ll have a few jars and find somewhere to eat. No shortage of restaurants in Temple Bar.’
‘I thought you and I could have a meal, Fionn. We should talk.’
‘Actions speak louder than words and you’ve made your feelings plain enough. It was foolish of me to imagine I could stoke up four-year-old embers anyway. So I wanted to buy you a drink and say goodbye. I’ve bought the drink, only the goodbye remains.’ And he kissed her on the cheek, lifted his coat and walked away.
Molly was dazed. She cast tentative eyes right and left to assess how much of the farewell scene had been overheard, finished her Pimms and rattled the ice cubes. Typical. Fionn McCullagh’s looking his most ravishing on the night he heaves her overboard. Was she going to sink without a trace? Was she heck. Fionn and she were finished when she decided and not before. Molly slapped her glass onto the counter, sent her curls somersaulting with a high-tempered toss of the head and followed in Fionn’s footsteps to The Norseman. If she picked up her pace she might head him off at the pass.
His stride was longer than hers, and he was ensconsed at a table with three other men and a quartet of Guinnesses when she caught up with him. Molly decided to be brazen and approached the foursome.
‘Fionn? Fionn McCullagh? I thought I recognised you. When did you arrive back from the States? It’s ages since we met up. Can I lure you away from your mates for one quick drink? You don’t mind, do you, lads?’ She exposed them to a megawatt smile. ‘Come and join me at the bar, just for ten minutes.’
Fionn looked at her as though she were deranged; he seemed on the brink of refusing but the man sitting next to him said, ‘Head on, McCullagh. I wouldn’t say no to a drink with a girl like that,’ and he lurched to his feet and followed her with ill grace.
‘What’s all this about?’ he demanded as soon as they were alone. For a moment she doubted her wisdom in giving chase: here was the stern-faced Fionn McCullagh who’d left her, citing the love of another woman, not the eager-to-please lover she’d been treating as a sexual convenience store.
‘I owe you an apology,’ said Molly. ‘I wasn’t convinced if I wanted you or not so I kept you dangling while I debated the pros and cons. A pleasant position for me to be in but not so snug in your shoes. I wouldn’t care for anyone to treat me that way and I’m not proud of doing it myself. In my defence, I can only offer the following: you knocked the breath, the hope and the heart out of me when you left and when you reappeared I went spinning off at a tangent.’
Fionn’s demeanour, which had been Siberian, thawed.
Molly continued, ‘Then you seemed to make the same arrangement with your wife as you had with me: three months to loiter backstage followed by either curtains or show time. How do you think that made me feel, Fionn? For all I knew you could be dallying with me and planning to return to your Viking muesli-muncher at the end of your sabbatical.’
Self-pity engulfed Molly at this point, although it was more the remembrance of tears shed four years ago than the prospect of streaming cheeks a few hours down the line that motivated the surge of emotion. Moisture glistened in her eyes; she sniffed audibly.
Fionn leaned forward and dabbed tenderly at her eye sockets with both thumbs, although the tears never materialised so he was rubbing dry skin. He didn’t notice, for his fingers were ensnared in her hair now, winding fistfuls around his fingers.
‘Silly girl,’ he whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this from the start instead of leading me a merry dance? I’m footsore from sidestepping you.’
‘I wasn’t thinking straight,’ admitted Molly.
‘Come away with me.’ He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own. ‘I know exactly what you and I need – some quality time together.’
Not quality time, groaned Molly inwardly. Quality time always ruined everything.
‘That would be perfect,’ she agreed.
They gazed at one another for a minute. Molly was somewhat surprised to realise she didn’t need to fake the dewiness.
‘And now,’ she announced, rising to her feet, ‘I’m going to send you back to your friends and have an early night for a change, read a novel in the bath with a glass of wine at my elbow.’
Fionn grinned. ‘Is there room in that bath for two?’
‘Another time. You’ll appreciate me all the more after an evening among the stag and hen parties in Temple Bar.’
‘I thought they weren’t encouraging that sort of trade any more,’ said Fionn.
‘There’s a difference between principle and practice, my dear Fionn. Just as there’s a difference between an early night with a paperback and an early night with your boyfriend. Give me a ring.’ Molly deposited a kiss on his nose and vacated The Norseman. Game, set and match. Unless he favoured a rematch.
She didn’t have long to wait for his serve – and it was an ace. Once indoors Molly abandoned the bath – she’d only mentioned it so that Fionn would have an immediate mental picture of her damp and naked – slammed a chicken curry in the microwave and ate it standing up scanning the television page in the newspaper for a Channel Four sitcom. Excellent, a Cheers rerun was on in ten minutes. Just time to change into her bath robe, wipe off her makeup and select a bottle of wine that would blend with the taste of Devonshire cream toffees because she had a huge bag of them in the press begging to be decimated. Something cheap on the wine front, she decided – no point in wasting her Chablis on toffee-flavoured tastebuds. Cut-price Chardonnay would serve the purpose.
If she had willpower she’d save the toffees until the opening titles, she ruminated, chomping on one as she threw her work suit in a heap and retrieved her bathrobe from the overflowing laundry basket.
Five minutes into Cheers the buzzer sounded. Molly ignored it. It drilled into her eardrums a second time. It was probably Elizabeth minus her keys again. Although it was too early for her, by at least four hours. Molly vacated the sofa with the utmost reluctance and pressed the speaking mechanism.
‘Molly? It’s Fionn, may I come up?’
She’d just cleaned off her makeup and a cream toffee was lodged in her cheek. No way, José, said her brain. ‘Could you give me a moment, Fionn?’ said her voice.
Land-speed records were broken sprinting to the bathroom, mascara combed on at a similar pace, teeth brushed simultaneously, leading to mascara blotches around her eyes, bathrobe kicked under the bed and a velvet dress, chosen solely on the basis of its pull-over-the-head merits, prised from its hanger.
Molly galloped back to the intercom and pressed the admit-all-comers button. She’d just have time to hide the toffees and bin her curry carton before he made his way up. Opening the door of her apartment to put the lock on snib, she encountered Fionn lounging in the doorway with a smile on his face and a tissue-wrapped bottle in his hand.
‘Hope I didn’t catch you at an inconvenient time.’
Molly ushered him in, noticing the bottle was champagne-shaped, and fulminating silently against residents who allowed strangers into the block, where was the point in intercoms if neighbours allowed in burglars and boyfriends willy-nilly? Nevertheless, champagne went a long way towards soothing a savage beast. Much less hit and miss than music.
‘Are we celebrating?’ she asked as he reached her the bottle.
‘I hope so.’ He ferreted out her champagne flutes.
Cheers was consigned to oblivion, she sank onto the sofa alongside him and he stroked her instep while she sipped liquid rapture. So what if he weren’t Greek? At least he knew where her Achilles heel was on the alcohol front. Not to mention – oops, he was kissing her toes now – her Achilles tendon.
Helen was edgy. Her fingers itched to phone Molly for a second opinion on what she should do – but what if Molly told her and she didn’t like what she heard? Nevertheless she was desperate for advice, better still a miracle, except this wasn’t Knock, and you needed faith for miracles to happen. But miracles were like wishes that came true and why shouldn’t hers? Somebody’s must. Helen massaged her throbbing temples, her brain whirring. Nothing could change the fact that tomorrow was Saturday and Patrick was arriving off a plane from London. She could choose not to be at home all day but that would only suspend confrontation for both of them. Confrontation – is that what this had to be about? Helen lit a cigarette from the butt of her smouldering one and paced the living room. Her first cigarettes in twelve years. This is what he’s driven me to, she raged, even as she inhaled avidly. I’ll die screaming and retching, riddled with lung cancer because of him. When had Patrick become so dogged, so obdurate, so unlike the loping teenager with the ready grin?
Helen was disappointed Molly hadn’t phoned – maybe she no longer wanted to be her friend. She was probably nauseated by Helen’s disclosure. She stubbed out her cigarette half-smoked and immediately lit up another – anything to deflect the agitation in her hands.
She needed a diversion. Helen thought of Barry, wavered, then shrugged.
‘Why not?’ She spoke aloud in the empty room, aware for the first time that it was dark and she hadn’t turned on the light. ‘Molly asked me to do it for her; specifically she pleaded with me.’
She took out a telephone directory from the drawer beneath the phone, frowned as she concentrated on remembering his name and experimented with various combinations. ‘Barry Skelton, Barry Dunne, Barry Dwyer.’ Inspiration struck – she had a copy of the newspaper under the coffee table; his byline might be there. She paused at Molly’s piece on the rentboy – his photograph caught her attention; outworn eyes in an unworn face – before flicking onwards. There it was, under a headline that read ‘Boy Band Go Bananas and Buy Shares in Chiquita’, a story about the latest teenage sensations with so much dosh to invest they’d hired a consultant, who’d advised them to trade in the banana market. ‘“I’ll only be drinking banana milkshakes and eating banana yoghurts from now on,” pledged lead singer Darren (17).’ Barry Dalton’s name was affixed to the story. For his sins.
So here’s the deal, Helen addressed her conscience. He lives northside somewhere, not too far out of town. If I find his name in the book I’ll ring him and if I don’t there’ll be no call.
There was a Barry Dalton at 11 Eden Terrace, Glasnevin. That had to be the right one. Helen dialled and a man’s voice answered.
‘Barry? It’s Helen Sharkey here, Molly’s friend. Molly’s dreamed up this flimsy idea that I should appear to make a play for you … Oh, she’s told you about it, right. Well, look, I’ll ring back in ten minutes and maybe you could make sure your wife takes the call. Are you definite about wanting to do this? I feel foolish; grand, if you’re determined on it. So I’ll sound wrong-footed and claim I’ve dialled a wrong number, then I’ll ring a few minutes later – your wife has to answer it again – and this time I’ll stumble but ask for you. Then you can recite “Baa Baa Black Sheep” down the line as far as I’m concerned because I’ll have hung up. It’s over to you to leave your wife with whatever impression you choose from the conversation.’
It happened as Helen specified; she felt a twinge perceiving the leaping jealousy in the other woman’s voice when she asked for Barry on the second phone call. She sounded agreeable; from somewhere near the border, judging by her accent. It seemed unfair to play games with her.
‘Helen,’ said Barry, shady rather than loverlike.
Janey Mac, she meant to warn him not to use her name.
‘I’m hanging up now,’ she announced. ‘Why don’t you buy your wife flowers and treat her properly for a change?’
The phone shrilled three-quarters-of-an-hour and eight cigarettes later. Helen still hadn’t eaten, nicotine had eroded her appetite, lacklustre at the best of times, but she was considering tea when the bell propelled her from the kitchen to the living room. It might be Patrick cancelling his flight. Or Molly telling her she wasn’t a degraded person because she was attracted to her brother. It was Barry. He must have found her number in the directory too.
‘Kay’s stormed out. This is working a treat,’ he virtually sang down the line.
‘Don’t even think about ringing me again. I’m not your partner in crime and I’m having serious reservations about the stunt you’re pulling on your wife. I’ve a good mind to call her up and enlighten her.’
‘Don’t do that.’ Barry’s courage, scrunched up to ring her because he needed to talk to someone, didn’t so much take flight as disintegrate.
Helen relented – she was probably walloping down on him like a ton of bricks because of her own frustrations.
‘All right, I won’t, but why are you ringing me up? I’ve played my part.’
‘Magnificently,’ he quavered. ‘I thought you might like to know it worked. I told Kay you were my new girlfriend, she lost the head completely, stormed out of the house to her friend’s shrieking she’d be on to the solicitor at the crack of dawn tomorrow.’
Helen was puzzled. ‘But you want to save your leaky marriage. A solicitor will transform a tear into a gigantic hole.’
Barry had to be beaming from the vowel sounds travelling down the phone line. ‘Tomorrow’s Saturday, it will be two days at the earliest before she can initiate legal action, by which time we’ll be inseparable, or so Molly assures me.’
‘Have you been speaking to Molly?’ Helen felt excluded that Molly could have spared time to talk to Barry but she hadn’t checked up on her.
‘Couldn’t reach her. Home phone and mobile are both on electronic voice mode.’
‘So my part in this charade is over now. You’re on the brink of wallpapering over all cracks and whisking your wife out to dinner. As soon as she’s on speaking terms with you, naturally.’
‘Hopefully we’re home and dry. Thanks a million. You’ll have to let me buy you a drink for your trouble.’
‘No thank you. And a word to the wise, Barry: it’s never too late to become the person you might have been.’
He was at a loss as to how to take that. ‘Fine,’ he managed, hanging up. Was she needling him or being nice to him? He’d never get to grips with the female psyche even if he came back in his next life as a woman and a shrink.
Helen replaced the receiver and decided on bed. There was one certainty facing her tomorrow, a meeting with Patrick. And whatever came of it a night’s sleep was essential. She’d have to take another tablet, it was the only way she could be guaranteed a few hours of oblivion. Just one pill, she bargained with herself as she heated milk to consume with it. And she’d set her alarm clock and book a telephone alarm so there’d be masses of time to shake off the effects of the tablet before Patrick arrived. She should have phoned Dublin airport to check what time the first Stansted flight landed. It couldn’t be before nine o’clock at the absolute earliest; it was a Saturday, after all. Ten o’clock was likelier. And then he’d need to grab a taxi and reach Sandycove, say another forty-five minutes. He shouldn’t be with her before about eleven. This was ridiculous, guessing; she might still catch up with someone on the information desk at the airport. No joy there, the phone chirruped unanswered, so she fiddled with her alarm clock and programmed it to go off at eight thirty because there was no way that Patrick Sharkey was going to catch her on the hop; she’d be professional, unflinchingly in control and ready for him. Should it take a box of sleeping pills, followed by a succession of alarm calls and an intravenous injection of caffeine.
CHAPTER 20
Stomach cramps awoke Molly. She lay there, trying to work out where the pain was located, followed by its source. Hunger was her first impression – she was always ravenous in the morning and astounded at people who didn’t bother with breakfast. Then she realised her period was due and tumbled out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown. The Feminax and tampons were in the bathroom cabinet, which seemed to be located halfway across town at this precise moment. Perhaps she should consider rehousing them in her bedside locker. As Molly groped towards consciousness she noticed a male foot protruding from underneath the duvet and deduced that it belonged to Fionn. His face wasn’t visible due to his habit of tunnelling nose-first into the pillow.
